


Morning Exorcisms

by 221brosiewilde



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gender or Sex Swap, Light breathplay, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3220337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221brosiewilde/pseuds/221brosiewilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jen Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes spend the night together after killing themselves. Nothing is easier the next morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Exorcisms

**Author's Note:**

> If you were to ask me where this came from I literally wouldn't know what to tell you.  
> As always, thank to the lovely [Sarah](http://www.bisexualcyborg.tumblr.com) for beta-ing this for me.  
> Enjoy!

Jen sleeps on her stomach.

It’s Sherlock’s first thought upon waking and with it come the other facts she’s absorbed over the years. _Seven percent of people in the world sleep on their stomachs. People who do are typically outgoing, brash, and prone to anxiety. The position can lead to neck pain, lower back pain, and-_

Jen’s fingers twitch. She mumbles something in her sleep and Sherlock’s brain stops for a moment. She sits up, careful not to jostle the mattress, and folds her legs under her. Her palms find each other and her index fingers come to rest under her bottom lip.

Jen is going to have sheet indents on her face when she wakes up. Sherlock hopes it’ll make her irritable. She likes the way Jen’s face scrunches up. She likes the wrinkle that appears in the bridge of her nose, the way her lips thin as she reins herself in. Sherlock’s noticed that Jen wraps herself in anger the way caterpillars do a cocoon. When she finally lets it free the result is nothing short of spectacular.

Like last night for example.

Sherlock sighs and closes her eyes. She tries not to remember.

Sex has always been complicated for her. It’s messy and loud and awkward and too much and too fast. She can’t make sense of everything that’s happening as it happens, let alone _before_ it happens, the way she usually can. It’s overwhelming in the way drugs had been overwhelming, except it’s…it’s…

Jen turns to face Sherlock and opens her eyes. The sheet does nothing to protect her modesty. It falls away almost completely as she stretches her arms above her head.

It’s _more_.

"Morning," Jen murmurs, voice rough with sleep. She somehow manages to make a usually innocuous word sound lascivious. There’s enough sleaze in those two syllables to make Sherlock want to press repeat on the night before. It probably has something to do with her accent; the way she draws out the consonants and hops over the vowels. She wants to hate it, but she can’t tell if Jen's doing it on purpose or not.

Jen’s eyes skip over her and pause at her neck. She smirks. “You’ve got a little something here.” She touches the edge of Sherlock’s jaw. A love bite, most likely. Fantastic. “I have cover up if you want to use it. I know you don’t wear that sort of thing.”

She’s showing off. _I see you_. Sherlock resists the urge to roll her eyes.

"It’s fine," she says. There’s a stray piece of hair threatening to fall into her eyes but she doesn’t want to move just yet. "I don’t think our colors match anyway."

Jen raises an eyebrow, well, half of one. The other half is smeared in a dark streak across her pillow. On anyone else it would look ridiculous, but on Jen it’s debauched and sexy. If anything, last night had been a study in peeling back all of Jen’s layers. It was interesting to see how much of her was glamour and how much was real. Even now, with her hair a dark, silky mess and her makeup smudged, Sherlock still isn’t sure. _Jen_ could be a role she plays the same way _Moriarty_ is.

"I have more than one shade," Jen says. She shrugs. "But suit yourself. It’s a pity Joan won’t see it. Her reaction would have been entertaining."

Sherlock’s stomach drops. _Joan_.

Joan thinks she’s dead.

Jen rolls a little closer, tangling herself in the sheet. She traces Sherlock’s ankle bone with her finger. It’s too intimate, too close. Sherlock moves her foot away and Jen pulls back as if burned. She looks up, grinning.

"Am I not allowed to touch now?"

"No."

Jen pouts, but Sherlock can see amusement glinting in her eyes, as if whatever lives inside of her is quietly saying hello.

"Shame," she says, then sits up. "I was going to ask if you wanted to do round two in the shower."

She pulls her arms above her head in a luxurious stretch and Sherlock catches a glimpse of the bruises on her wrists, her upper arms. She’s sure some of them are from last night, but there are a few that are yellowed, old. The fingerprints are much bigger.

Jen drops her arms and starts untangling her legs from the sheets. Sherlock loses focus.

"Why?" she asks. "You’re playing dead, too."

"Saves water," Jen says with a smile that’s more a show of teeth than amusement. "What does dead have to do with it?"

Sherlock thinks of Joan and wants to say _everything_.

"I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you," she says slowly. She’d been angry last night and she can feel it coming back now. "I faked my death because you were going to-"

"Oh, save it for someone who believes you. You’re here because you want to be," Jen says. She gives Sherlock a pitying look. "You and your brother could have taken me down any time on that roof. You were smart enough to fake your death for Joan, but not smart enough to get away from me?" She tuts. "Don’t sell yourself short, darling. We both know better."

The morning sun is filtering in through the cheap motel blinds and catching on the lighter colors in Jen’s hair. It makes her look soft (soft breasts, soft stomach, soft thighs). If she left now she’d look like just any other girl doing the Sunday morning walk of shame. It’s deceiving.  It makes Sherlock want to eat her alive. She wants to tear Jen open and expose the monsters hiding inside of her. She wants to bite her smile and pull her hair and make her plead until her masks crumble. She wants to find the soft, vulnerable, underbelly Jen hides so well. She wants to perform exorcisms with her mouth, her tongue, her fingers, her cunt.

Jen is right; Sherlock _wants_.

“Then why did you kill yourself?” she asks. It’s the kind of question Jen might make fun of her for, but it’s worth asking. “You could have just let me fake my death and tracked me down later. It would have made things easier for you.”

Jen shrugs and finally kicks the sheets away, revealing the rest of her body. “It was on my bucket list,” she says. “And you never would have gone through with it otherwise.”

She shoots Sherlock a smug grin and Sherlock does her best to match it before she asks her next question.

"Then what about Moran?"

The expression freezes on Jen’s face, making her look almost doll-like. It’s the only sign that she’s surprised and Sherlock has to give her credit for it - no one else would be able to catch themselves so quickly.

"What about him?" Jen asks. She blinks and _there’s_ Moriarty - cool and deadly and business-like. It’s like watching a master actor at work.

Sherlock shrugs and bites back a smile, replaces it with her most innocent look. “Just wondering,” she says. She’s got all the information she needs now. Suddenly those bruises on Jen’s arms aren’t so mysterious.

She can see Jen fighting with herself, struggling not to ask another question, to not give away anything else. It may be petty revenge, but it’s the best entertainment Sherlock’s had in months.

"You were saying something about a shower?" Sherlock asks. She starts to unfold herself, but Jen reaches forward and grabs her wrist.

“No,” she says. She smiles and it looks so _real_. Sherlock hates it. “You should stay here a bit longer. The sun’s barely up.” Jen runs her thumb along the vein in Sherlock’s wrist and she has to lock her knees to keep them from buckling. Someone shouldn’t be able to go from repulsive to seductive so fast. Sherlock really shouldn’t find it so impressive, especially when she’s done the same thing herself. But that was pretending; it was always for a case. This is different.

She clears her throat, mouth suddenly dry. “You don’t want a shower?” It’s unlikely. Jen doesn’t seem like the kind of person who likes looking less than pristine for an extended amount of time

Jen shakes her head. “You,” she breathes, leaning in, “are incapable of understanding what I want.”

There’s something sad in her voice, something that Sherlock wants to examine immediately. But then Jen is pressing against her, crushing their lips together. Her hands come up to tangle in Sherlock’s hair, nails digging into her scalp, and Sherlock groans. It’s just like the night before. It’s anger and intensity and pain and it’s all too fast for Sherlock to process. She pushes Jen away, breathing heavy.

“I have a flight to catch,” she lies.

Jen laughs and moves off the bed. She pads over to the bathroom on short legs and quiet feet. “No you don’t.”

“Mycroft is expecting me in Brussels by noon,” she tries again. She watches Jen turn the water on in the shower. Her pale skin stands out against the dark tile and when she reaches out to test the temperature, Sherlock sees the flashy red on her nails.

“Reschedule it,” Jen calls back. “You’ll make it if you leave before nine.”

Sherlock sighs and judges by the pattern the sun is making on the carpet that it’s barely even seven. When she looks up again, Jen has already stepped into the shower. The door is clear, allowing Sherlock a somewhat blurry glimpse of her.

The urge to see Jen free of her makeup is suddenly the most important thing Sherlock can think of.

She takes the three steps into the bathroom and closes the door. The steam immediately starts to build up, fogging the mirrors. Jen must have the temperature near boiling if it’s that fast, but Sherlock doesn’t care. She steps in.

Jen grins at her, looking warm and pink, but mostly wet. She’s rubbed all of her makeup off and Sherlock is surprised to find that she doesn’t look too different. Her eyes are still black -  even without eyeliner and mascara they’re the most striking part of her - but now Sherlock can see a faded constellation of freckles spread across her nose. She can see that her eyebrows are actually a lighter brown than her hair, that her cheekbones aren’t quite so prominent. She looks... normal.

Which is probably why she wears it all in the first place.

“I’d let you take a picture,” Jen says, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts. “But well...circumstances being what they are, I’m sure you understand.”

“I don’t need a picture,” Sherlock says. She taps her temple and for some reason, Jen smiles. She reaches up. Sherlock starts to move away but Jen catches her hand.

“Relax,” she says. She hooks her finger under one of the hair ties Sherlock keeps there and easing it off. Sherlock shivers. It’s just a touch; just fingers and hands and strategic movement. It shouldn’t make the hair on the back of her neck stand at attention.

“Don’t worry, I’ll give it back,” Jen says. She runs a hand through her hair, sweeps it up into her fist, and ties it in a neat bun. She glances up and catches Sherlock watching. “My hair takes too long to dry. You understand.”

Sherlock doesn’t. She’s never given much thought to how long it takes her hair to dry. She’s noticed Joan’s though - approximately fifteen minutes depending on outside conditions. It had seemed like an important calculation at the time.

Jen reaches behind her for the soap and starts washing. “You’re quiet this morning,” she says as if they’re not both dead, as if they don’t have people currently mourning them somewhere.

Sherlock hums. “Thinking.”

“You don’t do this very often, though,” Jen says. It’s not a question. Sherlock watches as she runs the bar of soap over her arms.

“No.”

“You don’t like sex.”

That answer requires more thought. “I don’t know.”

Jen smirks then turns to face the spray, rinsing off. “You’re getting better at that.”

The soap bubbles sliding over the curve of Jen’s arse are distracting. She has dimples in her lower back, like the black curves on a violin. Sherlock shakes her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts. “At what?”

Jen looks over her shoulder, grinning, and Sherlock scowls. Caught.

She tilts her head to the side in invitation, the same way she did the night before, and Sherlock can’t refuse. She steps closer and places her hands on Jen’s hips.

And there’s that urge to hurt again, the one that makes Sherlock’s hands shake and her knees weak. It’s vile.

“You hate this,” Jen murmurs. It’s not a question. “You hate that you’re here. You hate that you can’t stop.”

It’s an itch under Sherlock’s skin. It’s an annoying cough she can’t shake. It’s shower steam and arousal and body heat. It’s chemistry. It should be simple.

Jen leans back against Sherlock. The top of her head just reaches Sherlock’s collarbone and her arse is only a few inches shy of fitting perfectly into Sherlock’s hips. She takes Sherlock’s hand and slides it between her legs.

“But more importantly,” she continues. “You hate that I’m better at it.”

It’s petty, but it’s enough to break the spell.

Sherlock digs her nails into Jen’s hip, and shoves her forward, pinning her to the wall of the shower with her body. Jen grunts, but doesn’t struggle.

“You underestimate me,” Sherlock breathes. She moves her fingers in a quick circle over Jen’s clit and Jen moans. “I’m a quick learner.”

Jen turns to rest her cheek against the tile and glares at Sherlock. “Then get to it,” she spits. “I’m not going to teach you.”

Sherlock moves her fingers down slowly, intent on taking her time. This is better than last night. She feels more like herself. She feels alive.

Jen wiggles her hips impatiently and Sherlock bites at her neck - hard. She pushes a finger inside of Jen, and Jen hisses. Sherlock grins.   
“You’re wet,” she murmurs, flicking her tongue over the red mark that’s already forming. Hopefully it’ll be as big as the one Jen gave her last night. “You have been since you woke up. Do you like being held down?”

Jen snarls. “You can’t figure that out for yourself?”  She attempts to rock back against Sherlock’s hand, then lets out a frustrated huff. “You can put in another. I’m not going to break.”

Sherlock pauses, then draws out her finger, adding a second when she presses in again. The reaction is instantaneous. Jen lets out another moan and moves her hand down between her legs. She rubs her fingers over her clit and closes her eyes.

“Fuck, just like that,” she breathes and Sherlock can’t help but lean forward and press their lips together. It’s an awkward angle, especially with the height difference and the cramp rapidly forming in Sherlock’s wrist, but it’s good. It’s better than last night. She’s in control this time and they’re nowhere near as frantic.

She keeps the same slow rhythm with her fingers and gradually Jen’s kisses become less focused, her breathing less even. She makes a quiet, desperate sounding noise against Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock pulls back.

“Are you-”

“Yes,” Jen gasps. Sherlock twists her fingers. She gives a particularly hard push in, feeling bold, and Jen _keens_. “Kiss me. Come on.”

“No,” Sherlock says, surprised at the ferocity in her voice. “I want to see you.”

Jen curses, then clenches down so hard around Sherlock’s fingers she has to be coming. She shakes against the tile, practically sobbing, gasping Sherlock’s name.

She’s almost unrecognizable.

Carefully, Sherlock takes her fingers away. She stares. For a moment she considers cleaning them off with her mouth, but decides against it. No need to give Jen’s ego any more of a boost. She has all the encouragement she needs now anyway.

When she looks up again, Jen has hunger in her eyes.

“Water’s cold,” she says. “Out.”

Sherlock stays where she is, enjoying the look on Jen’s face the longer she hesitates. “Why?”  
“Because,” Jen says. She sidles up to Sherlock and opens the shower door. “I’d like to return the favor.”

And there’s that thing again, the almost supernatural way Jen changes her face to best match the situation. It goes beyond normal human expression completely - like she switches roles with every new emotion or topic of conversation. It makes Sherlock’s head spin. She can’t imagine what it does to normal people.

Maybe this is why Jen wants her so much: not to understand, but because Sherlock is her only hope for any kind of compassion.

It’s a realization that feels like a weapon. Sherlock tucks it away for later use.

Jen finishes drying her hair and drops the towel to the floor in an unceremonious heap. She stands on her toes and presses her lips to the edge of Sherlock’s jaw. “Unless you’d like me to fuck you right here,” she purrs, “I suggest we move to the bedroom.”

Sherlock takes Jen’s hand and presses it to her hip, then slides down until she feels her fingers graze her cunt, mirroring Jen’s forwardness in the shower. “I wouldn’t be opposed to staying here,” she says.

Jen slides her fingers against Sherlock’s clit. The quiet, wet sound of it is loud in the bathroom, and Sherlock feels her face heat. Jen raises her eyebrows.

“Sure about that?” she asks. Her hand stops and Sherlock is caught between frustration and embarrassment. It’s not a feeling she’s fond of. She relents.

“Bed,” she decides, and Jen moves her hand away entirely, looking pleased. She grabs Sherlock’s shoulder and pulls her in for a kiss that’s more teeth than lips, then pushes her into the bedroom.

Sherlock’s barely fallen onto the bed before Jen is on her - warm and soft and smelling like soap, completely feral. She kisses Sherlock, pulls at her bottom lip hard enough to break skin. Sherlock digs her nails into Jen’s shoulders and claws down in warning. It probably hurts, at least Sherlock hopes it does, but Jen groans and arches her back. It’s enough to get the message across. She breaks the kiss and mouths along Sherlock’s neck, marking her with sucking kisses that dance along the edge of too painful, and not painful enough. She’ll have marks after this and she’s not looking forward to explaining them to Mycroft. But then Jen’s hand finds Sherlock’s breast, thumb rubbing over her nipple, and thoughts of her brother abruptly cease. Sherlock gasps and feels Jen’s smirk against her skin.

“Mm, you’re fun when you’re all worked up.” She ducks her head and grazes her teeth along Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock bites the inside of her cheek to hold back a whimper.

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s chemistry.” She shifts underneath Jen and shoves her knee between Jen’s thighs. Jen lets out a grunt and digs her nail into Sherlock’s nipple. Sherlock cries out and starts to push away, but Jen is too fast. Before Sherlock can react, Jen’s hand is wrapped around her throat. Sherlock goes still. Jen’s grip isn’t tight enough to cut off oxygen completely, but it’s unyielding, uncomfortable, and stupidly, _impossibly_ hot.

Jen looks into Sherlock’s eyes for a long moment, calm despite the violence of her actions. “Astronomy,” she whispers, then lets go.

Sherlock gasps for air, vision gently swimming. Jen takes the opportunity to make her way down Sherlock’s body. She kisses around the curve of each breast, teasing, and Sherlock reaches down to run a hand through Jen’s hair. Jen makes a sound of annoyance so Sherlock smirks and tightens her grip.

“Something wrong?” she asks, managing to keep her voice steady despite the feeling of Jen’s tongue on her nipple. She can’t help but feel a little smug.

Jen sits up a bit and slides her hand down Sherlock’s stomach. Her nails scratch along Sherlock’s skin, leaving pink lines in their wake. Sherlock hisses.

“No one’s touched my hair during sex in years,” Jen says, sounding thoughtful. She squeezes the inside of Sherlock’s thighs, then pushes them wider, spreading her open. It makes Sherlock feel a bit like a sacrificial offering. She takes a deep breath to keep herself from squirming.

“Not even Moran?” She can’t help but ask. Jen looks up at her, eyes flashing, and Sherlock grins. “I like clarification. You know how it is, old habits and all that.”

The smile slides over Jen’s face like an oil slick. “Oh, I can sympathize,” she says. She leans down and presses a kiss to the crease of Sherlock’s thigh. “But if we’re talking clarification, then I suppose it’s okay for me to ask if Joan did ever do this to you?” She presses forward and slides her tongue along Sherlock’s cunt, slow and lewd.

Sherlock jolts. She tightens her fingers in Jen’s hair and has to restrain herself from pressing back against Jen’s face. She’d forgotten how good this was, well...when done right, of course. She’s had plenty of people in the past - women and men - who took ages to get her off, or who simply gave up halfway through, just because they wanted to rush to the next bit of sex. Watching someone take their time with it is new, and - Sherlock looks down and has to bite her lip to muffle a sound - Jen doesn’t look like she’s going to give up any time soon.

Jen leans her head against the inside of Sherlock’s thigh and rubs her thumb over her clit, hard enough to make Sherlock gasp. “Well? That wasn’t rhetorical.”

Sherlock looks up at the ceiling, seeking concentration. “You didn’t ans - answer my question, either.”

“Your question was stupid,” Jen says. She leans in again and runs the flat of her tongue against Sherlock’s cunt, pressing the tip inside of her teasingly. Sherlock groans and squeezes her eyes shut.

“And yours wasn’t?”

“No.” Jen presses her fingertips into the hollows of Sherlock’s hips and pulls her closer. “I want to know just how much your death is going to hurt Joan dearest. Sex tends to make people more attached. It’s sweet, isn’t it?”

Sherlock laughs, breath hitching as Jen leans in again and pushes two fingers into her at once. This time, Sherlock can’t help her moan. It’s too good and too close and she wants more. “I suppose sweet is...is….”

Jen looks up at her, amusement shining in her eyes as she twists her fingers. “Is?”

“It’s one word for it. _Christ_ , don’t stop.” Sherlock’s words come out in a rush and she’s surprised they even make sense at this point. Jen’s fingers are pushing in and out of her at a hard, steady pace and her tongue is on her clit again and she’s fucking humming and, and-

Sherlock arches her back, cursing as she comes. Her thighs shake and dimly she can feel Jen’s nails dig into her hips as she licks Sherlock through her orgasm. It’s a nice feeling to come down to and for a second Sherlock considers pulling her closer, forcing her to stay there until she comes again.

Jen laughs. The moment passes.

“Never pegged you as the type to call upon deities during sex,” she says, making a show of wiping her mouth. Her lips are red and swollen. Sherlock can’t resist pulling her closer so she can kiss them. _Creature comfort_ , she thinks, tasting herself on Jen’s lips. _That’s all_.

“I’m full of surprises,” Sherlock says, smirking into the kiss. She feels relaxed now, pliant and loose, and doesn’t want to move despite the damp sheets slowly drying underneath her.

But Brussels is waiting. _Mycroft_ is waiting.

And Mycroft will know.

“Aren’t you just.” Jen pulls away and rests her weight on her elbows. She runs her fingers through Sherlock’s hair, combing through the knotted curls. Sherlock hums and lets her eyes fall closed. Unlike Jen, she enjoys having her head touched. It’s one of the few things that actually relaxes her. Jen continues, “There’s not a deity out there who could protect you from me anyway.”

Sherlock opens her eyes again. Jen is gazing at her softly, thoughtful. It’s a good look on her.

“I wasn’t asking for protection,” Sherlock says. Religion never interested her. Why rely on something nonexistent for answers when they’re always right in front of her? “It was just an expletive.”

“Because the only god you believe in is yourself.” Sherlock wishes it was a question, that way she could at least try to deny it. She frowns.

“If I’m god, then what does that make you?”

Jen grins. “Guess.”

It’s not hard to picture Jen as Lucifer - Bringer of Light, the Deceiver, Angel of the Bottomless Pit.

God’s most cherished.

“That’s a bit heavy handed, don’t you think?” Sherlock rolls her eyes and pushes Jen off of her. The clock on the nightstand is starting to look accusing. The flight to Brussels won’t take long but Sherlock has no doubt that Mycroft’s briefing is going to be very thorough. Her phone buzzes angrily. She ignores it and starts searching for her clothes.

The real world is waking up, getting ready to chase her once more.

Jen rolls over onto her stomach, tangling herself in the sheets again, as if the last half hour never happened. Sherlock appreciates the symmetry.

“What can I say? I like my symbolism.”

“Ex-Catholics always do.” Sherlock picks up her skirt and shakes it out. There’s a barely noticeable tear in the back. Lovely.

“What makes you think I’m an ex-Catholic?” There’s steel in Jen’s voice. Sherlock’s lips twist into a smirk at the sound. Good. She hit a nerve.

“A simple deduction, really,” she says, shrugging on her shirt. “You’re Irish. You allude to biblical imagery very casually which leads me to believe your knowledge comes from being introduced to it in early childhood, rather than a university class or a text book. There’s a small chance you’re protestant given your accent is distinctly northern but an accent is an easy thing to fake. However, you switch all the time and yet this is your default voice. Then there’s the way you picked up on me taking the ‘lord’s name in vain’ - it’s a commandment, the third one, actually. _Really_ Jen, do I have to continue?”

Jen shrugs. “You can, but it’s pointless,” she drawls.

Sherlock finishes buttoning her shirt and steps into her skirt. “Yes it is.”

“Because there’s no way you can really be sure.”

Sherlock nearly tears the zipper off her skirt. Just like that the impulse to beat Jen until she’s bloody comes rushing back. That _infuriating, intolerable_ , little-

Jen stands and makes her way over to the bathroom, hips swaying, the hint of a smug smile on her lips. “I’ll see you around, darling. Have fun being dead.”

Before she can think about it, Sherlock spins, takes Jen by the throat, and slams her against the wall. Her head snaps into the drywall with a satisfying crunch. Her eyes glaze over.

“Back so soon?” She asks, choking on a laugh as Sherlock tightens her grip. Sherlock leans in close, shaking with rage. She’s lost Joan forever because of her. She’s lost _London_ forever. Everything she wanted, everything she had safely tucked in her grasp is gone because of Jen.

But killing Jen would upset too many months of work, of patience.

Jen digs her nails into Sherlock’s wrist, but her expression doesn’t change. She’s blank, deadly. Just like that they’re playing the game again.

“This isn’t over,” Sherlock breathes. She lets go. Jen sags back against the wall and gasps for air. Red marks line her neck. Sherlock hopes they bruise. The thought of Jen wearing her fingerprints under her makeup makes something inside of her howl.

Jen coughs. “It never was.”

Sherlock spares her one last look before turning. She slips into her heels and puts on her coat. The door closes behind her with a quiet snap.

The air outside is clean. Sherlock leans against the wall of the motel and breathes it in. She watches people pass by.

_He’s married, but he’s cheating._

_She’s pregnant._

_Their brother just died._

_She likes her, but is too afraid to admit it._

It’s all nonsense. Their problems seem so small in comparison to her. To Jen. To them. She closes her eyes again and steps towards the curb, raising her arm for a taxi. She doesn’t open them again until she hears one pull up. She steps inside and winds her scarf around her neck, watches the motel disappear as she drives away.

The world is just a just a playground now.


End file.
